Kill the writer. Remove the block.

I decided I was going to become a writer when I was 13. My grandfather had just died, my great-grandmother had just died, and my dog had been hit by a car–and died. Writing was the only thing that helped relieve some of the pain. If I wrote it down, it would go away, it would be over there in the notebook instead of inside me. I could revisit the ideas if I wanted but I no longer owned them, the notebook did.

I’m not sure what happened, but at some point in the last couple of months, I’ve lost it. I’ve lost my desire to write. I’ve lost myself.

Every day I look at my computer and I think how I should post a tweet or a Facebook update. I should express my point of view. I should return to the world I know so well. Yet, I freeze. I sit for hours staring, saddened by the turn of events that continue to happen every day on this earth; I feel paralyzed. What could my thoughts actually do to help any of them? Who am I in the greater scheme of things?

I am just like everyone else.

We are all the same.

We are all different.

My voice, just another sound shooting through the airwaves, internet waves, waving at no one in particular, hoping at least someone hears me, sees me, waves back. A thin line of connectivity. The string that ties me to humanity. If I cut it, I’ll lose myself.

Maybe it’s time for that self to go.

Kill the parts I no longer need.

Rise above the mainstream machine.

Find more of me as I remove the layers that others have glossed, painted, laid over me.
A product of my generation. Of this time. Of the before and the after.

The math that doesn’t add up.

The apathy from never being good enough.

The ego of always being better than.

Never one or the other, always neutral with the weight of experience pushing one up more than the other.

I am at the LA airport. All by myself. So I thought, why not, while I wait. I’ll just write a quick little blog. I thought the LA airport was supposed to be really weird, like full of really strange people, but it seems to have the same amount of weird as every other airport. It’s always the business people. The business people being all busy and businessy; whatever they have to do is way more important than whatever everyone else has to do, which is usually nothing, because they’re traveling for non-businessy things. So, I guess that makes sense. And I just have to put up with the fact that they’re having loud important businessy phone calls next to me. Perhaps if I pretend to be busy as well, by writing this blog and typing hurriedly while I suck down this coffee I will be able to, by proxy, join the weird businessy club. Probably not. I’m not wearing a suit.

2.

Two little old ladies in front of me on the plane.

1: Is your jacket warm enough? Is it lined?

2: Oh, yes it’s lined.

1: So you can take the liner out if it gets too warm?

2: Oh, yes it’s really nice. And it washes very nicely.

1: Oh does it?

2: Yes, it’s what I always wear when I travel.

1: Oh yes, I remember it.

2: Like when I went to New Zealand in April but it was their fall because they’re backwards to us. It worked well there because you never know about the weather.

1: True. Truuueee. You never do know about the weather.

3.

Sometimes I forget about Palm Trees. Having rarely ever experienced Palm Trees when I see them I think, “oh yes, palm trees.”

4.

Other times I notice people looking at me trying to figure out if my glasses have lenses in them. Yes, people, my glasses have lenses, what they don’t have is glare. Because who likes glare? So, sometimes it appears, when they are clean enough, that a person could just stick his or her finger right through the frame, but one cannot in reality do that, because there are indeed lenses there with an actual prescription. I do, and I do not lie, need them to see. I am not that hip.

5.

I have had, on occasion, men claim that the reason I cannot reach orgasm with them is due to the fact that my vibrators have desensitize me. I’d just like to state for a moment, as a sex educator, that this is not and cannot be true. The reason I am not having an orgasm is because maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I want to make them work for it. Whereas a vibrator has no opinion in the matter. And because it has no opinion I can just let it do its job. Because it is a job for the vibrator whereas with another person it is actually supposed to be pleasurable. It is supposed to be fun. But if they’re pressuring me to climax it’s going to take A LOT longer for me to do it; I don’t like to be told what to do.

6.

Suggestion while sexing: people, just say, “I don’t care if you come or not I’m just going to do this until I get lockjaw.” And then just do it until you get lockjaw, like you promised.

7.

Sometimes I think they only things that keep me from jumping off a tall building are really good writers and tater tots. I am not a really good writer, but perhaps one day after reading all the really good ones I can become okay. And that would be better for the world, or at least for me, than jumping off a tall building. What a mess!

8.

I’ve realized that one thing good writers have is the ability to capture the mundane thoughts “characters” have in a way that actually fully develops them into people. People that we can relate to and not relate to. And I’ve realized that I can use my super judgmental side to my advantage—I just have to take it further than I ever have before—I have to do an external judgment of who I think they are, but then analyze their motivations for decisions, which is turn will help me figure out what they think. And when I know what they think and why they think it then I can figure out how to take them, the character people, and put a few of them together into situations and make what they call stories.

9.

I’ve have also realized I am one of the only people in the world who looks at other people and pictures what they were like when they were kids or what they be like when they’re old. Or both. Like, what did their parents thought of them? What moment did they make another person so proud? What were their faces like when they opened their birthday present in 2nd grade? Will they have a cane or one of those walkers with tennis balls on the legs? Will they become curmudgeons? Will they dye their hair and get botox or will they accept their fate as aging old farts and let their wrinkles spread deeper and darker across their faces?

10.

This guy next to me has all these receipts spread all over the table. One of them is for a place called Mr. Pickle. There are so many opportunities here. I can’t even begin with the joking. I cannot even start. I just hope that one day I’ll have a Mr. Pickle of my own.

It won’t be long until summer is gone and everyone who felt something will be cold again.

It’s weird how the season’s change people. Just like the days of the week. I wonder what this year will bring. Strange because I feel like the end of the heat is the end of the year.

I had to give up on a boy (again, I know) and that is fine.

But always sad.

Take S for an example. He was around me a lot during the winter then suddenly he fell for someone else and moved basically to a different planet. All I got as a response from other people was, “yeah he does that,” like, if I had been in a better place I could have gotten him to go anywhere with me. But no, now I’m still here, bouncing from bar to bar, drink to drink, questioning everything and coming up with no answers.

And it wasn’t that I was even in love with S–he’s the example because I wasn’t.

Was not.

I was in love with his spirit, his ability to get super excited about ideas and possibilities. I guess I loved his love he gave the world. Perhaps that’s the same problem I’m having with this other guy. But if this is the case, do we ever really love a person or what that person represents? I loved R because he was creative and challenging, so maybe I just loved creativity and challenges? But is it so wrong that people are the representations of these things? And is it so wrong to love them because of that–because why else would we love them? Just because they exist? Their existence doesn’t do anything to heighten our own existence, unless we find in them something we’re either missing or wanting more of. I mean why else do we socialize? To feel connected in some way… but to feel that connection we have to have something unifying us. Perhaps that’s why so many people are obsessed with sports. Not because they have any connection to the players but because the team represents where they’re from/who they are and it gives them something to talk about with others in the area, which then makes them feel a part of something bigger than they are. It’s unfortunate that it has to be something so trivial and useless as football, but simple things never seem to be taken for granted.

I guess the more important question here, since this is not about anyone else, is what am I missing? Do I need to find someone to fill that void or can I do it myself? Does this person need to be someone I’m intimate with physically or just a friend? Is it multiple people I’m seeking? Multiple activities? What do I need to let go of? What do I need to embrace?

I think I do need someone to challenge me. To keep me accountable. But it’s weird because I almost feel like I have to “like like” this person and I have to feel that if I do not do impressive things that this person will not like me back. For example, I could have my mother tell me to get some writing done and I would do it or I wouldn’t because I want to write anyway, but I know that even if I don’t get any done she’s still going to love me no matter what. I guess I need someone to love me only if I’m writing. To love my writing. To perhaps not even love me at all and only love my writing. Or to love me only if I’m a writer, writing, and not just one of those people who claim their a writer but actually never write anything.

Maybe I just need deadlines.

Also since grad school ended I lack the intellectual stimulation that I need. I feel I am going stupid. I want to stay up all night arguing about post-modern theory, whether or not Barbara Kruger is brilliant, why Snookie and the like are reproducing when there are already 7 BILLION people in the world, if there will ever be a time period when more Americans have tattoos than don’t etc. etc. etc.

I need to do more things than just go to bars.

I need to make things.

At this point perhaps I should just start a creativity club—where people come over and we work on whatever we need to work on and then we share it or we don’t depending on our moods.

Or a book club.

Or both.

The mega problem is that I never have the same days off of work. So, I don’t know how to make this a regular thing. Maybe I’ll tell my boss I can’t work Monday nights since they’re the most boring nights in the entire world to work. Every Monday we (whoever we are) will unite over our own individual creativity and intellectual stimulation and make shit happen. . . who’s in?

Was there ever a dating show where other people selected dates for the contestant? I mean, the classic Love Connection voted on the 3 but had no real say. Singled Out at least narrowed it down a bit. Blind Date…sssooo gggooooddd. Pretty sure a girl from my high school was on that once. It was set in California so almost everyone was a “struggling actress” of some kind. I am not an actress; I am struggling though, so there’s that.

I want someone to log into my OKC account and pick me a winner. I am serious.

If done right this would be an amazing dating show. Best friend’s Choice.

Oh, I remember now there was a show on MTV awhile ago where a parent went on the date with the couple. That was awkward. I’d let my mom pick out a guy (which she has and that didn’t go over well–not her fault, the guy was just crazy) but I would never go out with a person AND my mom at the same time. Now, if she wanted to go on the first date for me and I wouldn’t even have to be there, I’d totally let her do that. I’d let anyone go on the first date for me. I find those introductory conversations mundane. I don’t care to talk about myself. And they’re usually very surface. Which is why other people could take over for me and it wouldn’t even matter. The person would probably even want to go on a second date if I wasn’t actually on the first one. ha.

Don’t worry people, this is not taking over my life again, though it’s really difficult for me not to write back snarky comments, particularly when they say things like, “hey wanna watch me skype;” why the fuck would I want to do that?

I finally found my book in my word docs and I’m going to re-read it and start fixing it THIS VERY DAY. It’s time. It’s calling for me.

But yeah, anyway, back to my point, who better to pick a good date than a good friend. They probably know better anyway. I currently have four options, so if any of you reading this right now want to help make my selection for the week, let me know!

(some entertainment for you. . .I wish she had a fetish for cowboy boots that would have made the date so much better)

I haven’t been writing because I haven’t had anything to say. You know how they tell you, “if you don’t have anything nice to say. . .” and since people want me to be “more positive” I am now at a lose for words.

Why.

Because I am not positive.

I am not a positive person.

And I think people just need to get over it.

I am also not a negative person.

Just because I complain about something or am depressed or pissed does not mean I hate everything and everyone and myself.

It just means that I am upset at whatever it is that I’m complaining or depressed or pissed about. That one particular thing.

Though lately it has been a whole list of things—which is why I haven’t been on here—because I don’t know where to begin and if I start I may never stop.

And no one really wants to read about it.

But. Why not. I’m here. You’re here. Why not have a little go at it.

11 Things that I am depressed and pissed about.

1) I am pissed that I have two masters’ degrees and have yet to be able to use them to their full potential.

2) I am pissed that everyone cares so much about money.

3) I am depressed that I have to care so much about money to the point that I might even start doing things for money I never thought I would do. (Retail)

4) I don’t get why people sometimes will text back and sometimes won’t. Or sometimes message back and sometimes not. If you have an issue with me or are scared of me or don’t like me just fucking tell me. Ugh.

5) I am pissed at this table that was next to us while we were eating out. I don’t get why parents would not only allow, but also encourage their pre-teen daughter to make fun of other people in such close proximity to them at a restaurant. Learn some fucking judgment etiquette. Always do it from afar or at least do it quietly.

6) I am pissed that the internet goes in and out at my apartment all the time BUT on a positive it forces me to do other things, like read books and do yoga. And we don’t really pay for it. So I can’t complain that much.

7) Why are there so few jobs available?

8) On different note, why do authors still put “he” as the dominant pro-noun. I still am depressed about this.

9) I don’t really like it when random people write comments on my blog about how I should live my life. I also don’t really like it when people I know do the same thing. Basically, I don’t really like people telling me what I should do. I will, most likely, do the opposite. But don’t try that opposite-trick on me either because I can always smell it.

10) My mom is driving me nuts. I know she’s going to read this, mom you’re driving me nuts. I’m doing all I can. And it’s okay for me not to be perfect. I spent 26 years of my life trying to be perfect, to do everything that I am supposed to do and it hasn’t gotten me anywhere. I was in a loving relationship, living in a nice apartment in a beautiful city, working for a non-profit that somehow mixed BOTH of my degrees and then it all fell apart. So now, it’s time to just be. And to be okay with just being for a year. I need a break from trying to be successful—which to most people directly correlates with making money—which I can’t do because there are no jobs. I got my undergrad in 3 ½ years and 2 Masters in 3 years. I think it affords me a year off, just saying. I did all of that way faster than most people. It’s time to take a breath.

11) What’s so wrong with taking a breath? It’s like if I’m not constantly doing something or making something or being somewhere there’s something wrong with me. I really can’t handle it any longer.

Okay.

So.

I took a breath. A long one. I went outside, got some air, took a walk.

Now. So I don’t seem like the most Negative Nancy of ALL time:

Here are 11 things that I love and make me happy.

1) Obviously even though they drive me nuts sometimes (as I do them) I love my family. It’s clear that they really care about me (and I them) and it is amazing to have that in my life.

2) Water. I love water. I love being made mostly of water, I love drinking water, I love swimming in water, showering in water, getting caught in the rain of water. I love beer made from the finest mountain water. The oceans, the rivers, the lakes, the ponds, even the puddles..

3) Running. Okay. I have a love/hate relationship with running. I love doing it and I love how I feel when I’m done running. I do not love the mental battle, the fight that it takes for me to get dressed and get out the door to go running. Also…I don’t like seeing other people run because my mentality switches to both jealousy and guilt.

4) The Sun. Oh yeah, I’m picking really easy ones to day, but the simplicity makes them all the more lovable. The warmth on my skin. The brightness it brings to my day.

5) Pickles. Seriously. If I could, like if I were rich or had an unlimited supply I’d probably eat at least a jar a day. Dill. Spicy. Bread & Butter. Any and all pickles.

6) Learning. I LOVE learning. Every day there’s something new to learn. Right now I’m focusing on a new language so I can start complaining bilingually wohoo.

7) My roommate. She’s fucking awesome. I don’t know how she puts up with me but she does so very well.

8) And with that, still being able to live in an apartment somehow, even though I don’t have a job. It’s rather magical actually. I’m not quite sure how it’s happening.

9) Music. Music has saved my life. This is not an exggeration. If I didn’t have certain songs in my life at certain times I probably would have jumped off a cliff. It’s about connection, knowing other people are going through the same experiences, feeling a part of something, being aware the feelings aren’t crazy or wrong or weird and even if they are, it’s okay because we’ve all been there at one time (which is why I’m drawn to writing but that’s a major love/hate relationship).

10) Drake

This song hasn’t really gotten me through much, but I still love it and it makes me happy.

11) Checking myself. Sure, there’s a lot out there that pisses me off and depresses me but I definitely have my share amount of privileges; white in the U.S. living in an apartment with internet access, my own computer, food to eat, clean water to drink, access to gain knowledge via library/countless books/google, friends, family, a car, a tv, a clean bill of health. Yeah. It ain’t so bad.

1) In many of my writing classes they talk about how when you write a paragraph in and then later decide to take it out somehow those ideas are still left in readers subconscious, like the aura of the idea. Lately when writing emails to people I don’t like, I’ve been signing off “fuck off and die” then going back and erasing it. I’m wondering if the aura of “fuck off and die” is resonating with the reader. I sure hope so.

2) I have a theory that Serena van der Woodson (Blake Lively), the main character in the magnetic Gossip Girl television series, is portraying the symbol of female sexuality. In every episode the other characters try to suppress her, and tell her how slutty and bad she is for liking men. Her mother even locks her in a mental institution without even giving her a chance to speak for herself. If it was still in grad school I’d totally write a paper about this.

3) I realized while going on a few OK Cupid dates (yes they some times actually happen) that I have a problem with wanting guys to be exactly how I want them to be–more like me, ha. That’s a little vague but let me elaborate. One particular guy that I like has no real forks, spoons, or glasses instead it’s all “disposable” plastic. This drives my environmentally-friendly mind insane. I want to go to goodwill and buy him some kitchenware. But I have to take a step back; I’m not his girlfriend, his mother, his maid. I’m not there to domesticate him, I’m there to just hang out and have fun. This is really hard for me. I want to step in and “fix” it. But I have to learn to let people be who they are and maybe with a little soft persuasion over time, he’ll realize the error in his ways without me being Ms. Fix-Him-Uper.

4) I went to this art lecture the other night at Illiterate Gallery here in Denver. Six artists talked on a range of topics from typography to hidden mothers in old photographs. They brought up many interesting ideas. One speaker discussed crip theory, which is a way of examining disability through a queer lens. I was a little confused about the “super-able body,” the difference between crip theory and cyborg theory and if they were connected or totally different ideas. Is the “super-able body,” supposed to be a representative of queer—a person who symbolically breaks the binary construction of what it is to be human? Sort of like how the cyborg is intertwined with both the natural and technological world creating an intersectionality between the two that can’t be broken, thus working to to deconstruct as well as re-construct what it means to be human. Either way I plan to learn more (if you have any suggested reading please comment!).

5) That song’s catchy. Makes me want to go read Cunt again. There’s this section in Cunt about cycling with the moon. Now that I’m off birth control I’m going to attempt to become a moon goddess. Maybe I’ll even get super hippy and paint abstracts with my menstrual blood. Probably not. Last night I was watching 30 Rock and Liz Lemon said she liked to keep her tampons in the refrigerator. I’m totally going to try that this month because it’s so freaking ridiculous. Though, when I run out of this box I’m going to buy one of those divacup things– me being environmentally-friendly and all. (I’ll let you know how it works out for me.)